


Red and Wanting

by jerry_duty



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, One Year Later, Oral Sex, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 08:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15139343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerry_duty/pseuds/jerry_duty
Summary: “You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” said Connor. “They should be jealous. I get to keep you.” / Connor and Hank get ready for a formal function recognizing android and human cooperation.





	Red and Wanting

The clock in the living room chimed the hour. Sumo woofed his opposition.

“Forty-five minutes,” Connor called down the hallway. Hank had insisted on dressing “in solitude, and peace, you color-coordinating vulture.”

“I got a watch,” Hank yelled back at him. “Gimme a minute, wouldja.”

He’d left the bedroom door halfway open, and Connor had taken this as a demonstration of trust and thus a compliment. Alternatively it was an invitation, in which case Connor was determined to ignore it. Hank grunted. It was not dissimilar to the sort of grunt he made under strenuous physical conditions. 

Connor considered the fall of his own hair again in the bathroom mirror. He tucked the curl in with the rest then tried it out the other direction. A sticky note on the mirror read in Hank’s slanting print, BRUSH TEETH, OR DON’T. Connor had amended this note with DO and a smiley face he thought whimsical. Hank had scratched through the smiley face.

“One minute,” he said dutifully.

Hank swore. Connor pinched his smile away and let the curl fall as it always fell. Some things, he had learned, you simply had to accept.

“Do you require assistance, lieutenant?”

“I know how to dress myself.” A drawer slammed. “Why the fuck am I even going to this damn thing.”

Very patiently Connor said, “Because we’re being recognized by the mayor for android-human achievement, and I promised Captain Fowler that you would be there even if I had to hit you over the head.”

Footsteps, shuffling across the carpet. The boards beneath creaked. Connor wandered to the bathroom door in time to catch Hank’s squinting look through from the bedroom.

“I wouldn’t have hit you over the head,” Connor assured him. “That was Captain Fowler’s stipulation. I would have promised you two beers this week. But I’d only let you have your usual one beer.”

“There’s something wrong with your head,” Hank told him. “Seriously screwed all to shit.”

“Yes, I have noticed a number of instabilities in my software,” Connor said. “Please submit a consumer report with CyberLife’s customer services department.”

Hank disappeared into the bedroom again even as he continued to shout after Connor. “You know how you think that joke’s a real funny ha-ha-ha knee-slapper? It isn’t.”

“We have very different senses of humor, lieutenant,” said Connor. He took three slight steps down the hallway toward the bedroom. “I’ve come to appreciate our differences. For example,” he went on, “I prize punctuality. Whereas you believe work hours to be optional.”

“The mayor’s gonna be there,” Hank was grumbling. “All those political pricks on the city council. Serving the people first, my left ball. What they’re gonna do is they’re gonna corner you and blow smoke up your asshole about what a fucking hero you are and the whole time they’re sizing you up for their next campaign commercial.”

Connor pushed the door fully open. He intended to remind Hank that he did not have an asshole. Hank looked up in surprise. The micro-lenses in Connor’s eyes spun then dialed down to provide sharp focus. 

Hank had pulled his grey hair back into a tiny bun high at the back of his head. As the event was not an official police function, they were not required to wear dress blues, and Hank had grumbled that he didn't fit his uniform anymore anyway. Connor had made a note to requisition a new uniform. His fingers were at the approximate location of his celiac plexus, on the topmost button of the red damask vest of a three piece suit. He’d laid the red jacket flat in its dry cleaning bag on the bed. The untrimmed scruff of his beard was shockingly incongruent against the clean lines of his white shirt, the pressed red trousers. His socks were black. The big toe of the right foot nearly stuck through, where the fabric had worn thin.

Hank’s ears were flushed. The heavy creases of his face deepened as he scowled.

“What?”

Connor blinked rapidly. He was very aware of his LED. Sumo trundled into the room with his nose to the floor, snuffling deep at the carpet.

Hank snapped, “I asked you a question, Connor.”

“You didn’t specify,” said Connor. “What ‘what’?”

A few flyaway strands of silver-grey hair curled next to Hank’s cheek. He stabbed a finger at Connor.

“I can see your LED blinking, asshole.”

“I’m currently processing.”

“Processing what?” Hank’s shoulders were hunched. He fumbled with that last button then turned with irritation from the mirror over the dresser. His nape, so rarely exposed, was patchy red too. The hairs were pulled tautly north to the bun. Connor counted them. He was unsure as to why.

“Look, you’re not even going to like it,” Hank said with his back to him. “We’re gonna stand up on a stage in front of those brown-nosers in their penguin suits—”

Connor tipped his head. He touched two fingers to his LED. He wondered if it had stopped cycling now that he had realized it.

“—and I shouldn’t even be up there, you’re the only reason we got that bust, and it’s a bunch of bullshit they won’t just let you up there without, what, your fucking _handler_ to make you look like they got you on a leash.”

Hank, bent over the dry cleaning bag, went very still. Connor let his hand rest a moment longer at the curving small of Hank’s back. Then he slid his palm very calmly up the spinal column. A layer of fat overlaid the musculature still thick through Hank. A subcutaneous layer of fat, added on to with age and diet. Connor thought again of the vest, the smoothed swell beneath it of Hank’s chest and gut. 

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, Hank,” said Connor.

With something like a growl, Hank tried to shrug him off. “Who’s embarrassed? What’s embarrassing is—” As suddenly as before he had turned from Connor, he rounded on Connor. The difference in their heights was negligible, perhaps an inch. Another curl had slipped from the bun. “Yeah, I’m fucking embarrassed. Patsy-ass drug bust, the whole show’s a PR circus. They should’ve given you the award a year ago—”

Connor cupped Hank’s bearded jaw in his hands and kissed him. Hank’s heat spilled into his mouth in a long and startled exhale. He liked to kiss Hank. His lips were dry. His beard hairs scratched. His tongue was strong, and Connor enjoyed teasing at the gap between his teeth. 

Connor withdrew. Their noses brushed. Hank’s eyes were pupil-dark. 

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” said Connor. “They should be jealous. I get to keep you.”

Hank flustered. His big hands fluttered at Connor’s sides, wanting to touch and yet, even with the heat of his fingers so near to Connor, he wouldn’t grasp.

“You can’t just—I mean, where the hell do you hear this shit that you say to me?”

“I didn’t hear it anywhere,” said Connor. He dropped a hand to smooth down the front of Hank’s buttoned vest. “It’s the truth, to me. Don’t you believe me?”

“Of course I believe you, it’s just…” Hank’s chin dropped. He scratched a finger at his temple, loosing more hairs. “Look. It should just be you up there. I’ve already done this whole circuit.”

“But I want them to look at you.”

He clutched Connor’s wrist, pulling the hand from his chest. “Well, why in the hell would you want that?”

Connor stroked the first and then the second fingers of his other hand along Hank’s unshaven jaw. He tightened the wrist in Hank’s grip then let it relax. Hank’s eyes flicked to his temple, then to Connor’s eyes again.

“Thirty-six minutes,” said Connor. “Please stand with your back to the dresser.”

Hank rubbed a slow arc into Connor’s wrist with his thumb. His brow ticked. He rumbled when he spoke.

“And why’m I gonna do that?”

“There isn’t enough time to get you another suit,” said Connor. “It would be better if we didn’t soil it.”

The tension in Hank’s shoulders loosened. He squeezed Connor’s wrist and drew in a breath, a breath that swelled his chest under that embroidered, patterned vest with its brass buttons. The thought of each of those buttons fastened in their place made Connor’s scalp itch.

Hank went to the dresser as Connor led Sumo out then closed the door on him. He looked across the room at Hank. The door clicked to its frame. Hank gripped the dresser’s edge and spread his arms by sliding his hands wide to either side. Connor smiled.

“What’re you smiling at?”

Connor hummed and tapped two fingers against the door knob. He said, “You.”

Hank vocalized so much. He grunted and clicked teeth and sucked on his tongue, aural tells as clear to Connor as he supposed his LED was to Hank. Now, Hank huffed in his nose: _yeah, right_.

He approached Hank. As he approached him, he made eye contact and he held it. This supported his sincerity, and he could better anticipate Hank’s thoughts and needs when he studied the micro-expressions that flitted across his face. Connor said:

“You said that you believe me, lieutenant.”

“That’s not…” Hank scratched his little finger across the dresser. As Connor came toward him, his shoulders began again to tense. “You can’t just go around saying things to me.”

“What things?”

“Those kinds of things.”

“Ahh,” said Connor, raising his eyebrows. “Those things.”

“You know what I mean.”

Connor tilted his head and blinked showily. Hank’s breath quickened. His chin was drawn to his throat. The loose strands of hair curled around his cheekbone. Connor’s toes touched Hank’s toes. 

Connor said, “And what would that be, Hank?”

“Look,” said Hank, “I got eyes. All right? I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve got…” He grimaced. “Whatever. I don’t look the same in a suit.”

“Hm,” said Connor. He leaned forward and spread his own arms, that he might cover Hank’s hands with his own. “Do you know, I never met him. That younger Hank. The one that bothers you.”

The tendons in Hank’s hands tightened. “It doesn’t bother me—”

“The Hank I love,” said Connor, “is you, lieutenant.”

A very faint sheen of sweat had started at the lieutenant’s ears. Connor’s smile grew. He was enjoying this. The dilation of Hank’s pupils. The tendons, taut, in his hands and wrists. The teeth that showed between his lips as he opened them then swallowed instead of speaking.

“Maybe it would help,” said Connor, so close now that their lips brushed as he spoke, “if I demonstrated. Thirty-two minutes.”

He stroked the first finger of each hand along the inside of Hank’s corresponding wrists, and then, his hands sliding along Hank’s arms to come to rest on his chest, Connor sank to his knees. 

Hank said, “Jesus, Connor, we don’t got time.”

Connor said, “Then I will have to be effective,” and he got to work on the belt. “I find you very attractive, lieutenant. There are several reasons why. Would you like me to tell you?”

“You, uh, you don’t have to do that.”

Connor loosened the belt and unpinned the button at the groin. “I believe that I do. So let’s start with the physical.”

“Let’s not,” said Hank, sounding pained. His penis was soft through the trousers, even as Connor unzipped the trousers. Connor pulled his shirt up and out of the way.

The time display in Connor’s visual feed noted the descending seconds. A moment’s frisson, an excitement: how to accomplish his goal in the limited time. Connor triggered additional saliva production.

“I like your body.” Connor methodically parted the opening of Hank’s boxers to withdraw his penis. “You’re tall and broad-shouldered. Built for physical action. You feel guilty when you weigh yourself but you’re in commendable health for your age.”

“Gee, thanks.” But his breath caught as Connor ran two fingers along the underside of his penis then gripped him.

“Personally I find your weight and build to be appealing. It is … pleasant,” he said after a thought, “to touch you. Or to hold you. I can feel in my hands,” he noted, spreading his free hand wide across the center of Hank’s gut, “your strength. And you’re soft, too.”

Hank covered his face with one hand. In Connor’s hand, his cock had twitched; he was beginning, slowly, to harden as Connor stroked him in a long, slow rhythm. 

“I like the hair on your chest,” said Connor. “It is visually appealing, how it continues over your abdomen. Over your crotch. Your thighs.” He pressed his face to the sliver of belly exposed above Hank’s boxers.

Hank’s cock, not yet fully erect, was hard still in Connor’s hand. He liked to watch it as it filled. He liked to feel it filling, in his hand or on his tongue. He told Hank this and Hank gave a ragged gasp of breath. 

“If I hadn’t promised Captain Fowler that we would be there,” said Connor, “I would ask you to please take off your boxers. I like your testicles,” he explained to Hank. “The skin folds and the pubic hair add tactile details. Would you like me to stop?”

Hank’s chest rose and fell in staggered steps. He said, sounding pained again, “No. You can—okay, yeah, _yes_ , keep going,” and with a flash of irritation he said, “You’ve really got me fucked up, Connor. This stupid clinical shit shouldn’t even work on me.”

Connor smiled and kissed the head of Hank’s cock. He let his tongue slip out, just the tip, to tease against the slit in the head. Hank groaned. His thighs tightened. Connor licked him again, bending then to trace the progress of the vein on the underside from the root to the end.

“Your voice,” he said when he sat back, “makes me think of…” Home. The interior of the car. Sitting on Hank’s desk at the precinct. Hank, Hank. “Wherever I want to be.”

Each thought of Hank triggered the unpacking of another dataset pertaining to the lieutenant. A dizziness took Connor. It was suddenly difficult to maintain baseline observation of the room. He was thinking of Hank grinning at him over the car. The color of his eyes in that light had three annotations associating it with: Hank, daylight, sky overcast; Hank, neon lighting, Eden Club; smoke, a fire. Each of these in turn triggered another cascade. 

“Lieutenant,” said Connor, looking up the dear, familiar lines and blunted curves of Hank’s body to Hank, “I assure you. I am in every possible way thoroughly compromised by you. It is deeply troubling, and I want it to continue every day. And nothing would make me happier than to see you on that stage and to know that no one else who is there will get to take you home, and hold you, and fuck you.”

Hank said, “Connor, see—that’s exactly the shit I was talking about. You can’t just say these things that make me want to just… Take off this fucking suit and tell the mayor to go fuck himself!”

“Hank,” said Connor, before Hank could do no more than reach in frustration for the buttons of his vest, “please put your hands in my hair. I’d like you to stroke my cranial ventilations while I suck you off.”

“Fine!” said Hank. “Fine. Forget it! Fine! Just do whatever you want ‘cause you’re never going to listen to me,” and it was love that made him so furious, and it was happiness that made him fight so hard to look miserable, and Connor liked him, loved him, adored him. 

He bent his head to show Hank. And oh, he did like it. Hank had a thick cock, a cock with girth. There were three freckles on it, and it leaned to the right, just so. Connor enjoyed the weight of it on his tongue. The salt taste of sweat. A negligible protein content in the pre-ejaculate against his teeth. And oh, he liked the feel of it as he moved down it, the heavy slide of Hank’s penis between his teeth and over his tongue, into his synthetically lined throat. 

It made him feel: he did not know how it made him feel, only that he _liked_ it. He liked to hum around it or to move his tongue that tiniest of fractions the confined space permitted, and to feel how Hank shuddered, to hear how he gasped and said, Connor, Connor. He liked to taste Hank’s cock and to know that this was Hank. He liked that it made Hank tremble for Connor to pull off and press his lips to the head, to drag his lips over that slit so Hank shivered and twitched and spilled more pre-ejaculate against Connor’s teeth.

Connor liked Hank’s hands in his hair, groping and petting him, petting him, carding through Connor’s hair with his nails. The nails catching on the nearly microscopic ventilation systems that exiled heat from Connor’s primary processor, each snag triggering another very minor power flux, a variation of an error read-out, that pricked him. 

Hank’s breath shuddered. His hands petted at Connor. The left hand cradled the curve of Connor’s head. His hips jerked minutely once. Connor thought with sudden unanticipated longing of his own penis, wireless and currently turned off, stored in the third drawer down, behind Hank’s calf. He wanted with alacrity to stand up – to leave Hank gasping and red-faced and swearing with his spit-wet cock aching – to attach his cock and activate the secondary pleasure routines that would create a closed feedback loop sustained by each rolling thrust he might make, make into _Hank_ , who he would lay out on the bed first, yes, and whose chest he would lave with kisses, _bite his nipples, lick the sweat from his chest hair, trace the lines of the religious portrait tattoo,_ and Hank would say, Connor, he would say, Connor, please, he would say, Connor, I love you, Connor, you son of a bitch, you fuck, and he would mean, _I belong to you, Connor, same as you belong to me, we belong to each other, Connor,_ Connor, Connor— 

Connor moaned. 

“God,” said Hank. His voice was strained. He touched his little finger to Connor’s temple. “Your LED’s. Fucking light show.”

Connor arched his neck and swallowed Hank down again. His lips stretched. His tongue cradled. Hank swore and pulled on Connor’s hair. Connor pulsed his throat around Hank and Hank made a sound like a breaking, or a surrendering. 

I want to show them, Connor thought. I want them to see. He could lay out each piece of evidence. _This is why I love Lieutenant Henry Anderson. This is why I want him. This is why you cannot have him. This is why he’s mine._ An android did not have belongings, but an android could belong. And anyway, he thought, none of the old rules applied. If Connor wanted Hank, he could have him. He did. He did want Hank. He wanted him any way that he could have Hank. 

Hank grasped Connor’s hand, the fingers splayed over the vest. He folded his hand around Connor’s hand. His thumb pressed into the synthetic fatty deposit at the base of Connor’s own thumb. 

Hank said very lowly, “Connor, you’re so—fffuck,” as Connor deliberately tightened his throat. Hank clutched his hand tightly. The fingers of the other hand carded desperately through Connor’s hair, and Connor shivered with pleasure to be held and wanted. And Hank said in his low and rumbling bass voice, the voice that for Connor activated subroutines of _listen_ and _remember_ , and secondary level associations with _joy_ and _comfort_ and _useful/desired/accepted_ ; in that voice that gave pleasure, Hank said roughly:

“Connor,” and his hips rolled, his cock pushing deeper even as he tried to stay still, “Connor,” he said, and Connor took all of him, he took Hank and claimed him as his own, and Hank said: “Connor,” quiet as if he were afraid to be heard, “Connor, I—you don’t even fucking know—you…” and again he said, “Connor,” and Connor melted beneath his hands and around him, _Hank_ , he thought, _Hank_ , and Hank said:

“I just—I fucked everything up—and you just…”

Connor thought: I love him. I love him. I do love him, and to think it was to feel power, to think it was to feel the hugeness of his own will and the freedom he had to pursue it, to love and to be loved and to possess love and to nourish it. His processor was tripping. He’d activated too many subroutines, decompressed too many memory packets. Connor forced focus to the time display. He didn’t have time to permit a series of power fluctuations to trigger his own orgasm. Viciously he began killing off routines, and with a similar viciousness he swallowed hard around Hank’s cock and teased his teeth at the root so that Hank jerked.

Hank grasped Connor’s hand at his front. He rested the other palm over Connor’s LED, surely spinning violently yellow. Hank looked down at him and Hank’s brow was knotted and his mouth pursed and turned down at the corners, and Connor thought without words in an emotional burst, _don’t be sad, Hank,_ and Hank said so very, very quietly:

“I love you. Connor,” and Connor slid with teasing slowness off of Hank’s cock, each blue spit-slicked inch revealed as Hank shuddered, and with only the head resting hotly on his lip, Connor smiled at Hank. 

Connor said, “And I love you, lieutenant,” and he kissed Hank with his lips around the glans. “We have five minutes remaining, and I would like to accept the award from the mayor and the commissioner knowing I have you inside my waste tank,” and Hank gasped, “You—god damn weirdo,” and came helplessly anyway into Connor’s mouth, three hot spurts that re-activated the analytical sensors embedded in Connor’s tongue. Salt, protein, water. Hank’s blood sugar was mildly elevated. He’d eaten a salad at lunch, as per Connor’s suggestion. 

Connor closed his eyes from the pleasure of it. He’d another thought outside words, a visualization of the wireless dildo, and of Hank sweaty and hairy and cursing and wonderfully large beneath him. Ruthlessly Connor exiled the image.

Hank was still trembling, minute quivers in his thighs and gut, as Connor tucked him back in and zipped his trousers, buttoned them, tightened and buckled his belt. Connor got carefully to his feet. He reached for his own tie to straighten it and tighten the knot.

“And you still want to go to this,” said Hank, voice roughed. His face was sheened with sweat. The loose hairs clung lankly to his cheek. He smelled strongly of come, sweat, the exertion of remaining upright.

Connor licked his lips. Hank shuddered. 

“Of course,” said Connor. “I’m receiving recognition for my work. But please don’t worry, Hank. I fully intend to make the evening worthwhile for you.”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Hank. “You forget I’m fifty-four.”

“I have full confidence in your sexual stamina,” said Connor. “And if the PR activities after the ceremony do bother you, think instead of what I intend to do to you when we return home.”

Hank looked warily at him. “And what do you intend to do?”

Connor leaned in and, with his lips against the deliciously sweat-salted skin of Hank’s cheek, he told him. Hank gripped Connor’s elbow.

“You relentless bastard,” wheezed Hank, and with vehemence he swore, “Fuck me.”

Connor smiled slowly, meanly, smugly in the face of Hank’s hapless interest. He said, “Yes.” Then he went to fetch the dry cleaning bag from the bed. They were now two minutes late to depart. He looked forward to the irritated expression on Captain Fowler’s face and even more so to Hank’s belligerent _so what, we’re here_ response.

Behind Connor, Hank scrubbed at his face. He surely made a greater mess of his beard and hair. Connor savored the thought of combing out Hank’s hair and smoothing his beard to make him neat outside the venue. Perhaps he would even do so on the sidewalk, so that those walking past them might see how Connor lavished Hank and Hank, flushed and pleased and embarrassed, allowed him.

“I’m driving,” Hank said.

“Yes, lieutenant,” said Connor. He unlocked and opened the door. Sumo panted cheerily up at him. “I’ll scan for the optimal route.”

Hank looked at him in the doorway. Fondness softened Hank’s weathered features. Hank said, “Yeah, all right, you do that,” then he tipped his head to press a single chaste and scratching kiss to Connor’s cheek. Connor had to remind himself they were four minutes late.

So Connor, adding the evening’s reward to his task list, focused on the matter of the traffic. He would hate to miss the opportunity to accept the award in front of the sour-faced human officers with Hank glowering and proud beside him.

Yes, thought Connor, look and see; and he was pleased to think it.


End file.
